


get down

by TomBowline



Series: inferno [3]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Hook-Up, M/M, Open Relationship Hickey/Tozer, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29417832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/pseuds/TomBowline
Summary: This was one of his favorite errands to run, as it were - the company was kind, and the merchandise interesting. He wasn’t often called to use a gun, but weapons of any sort had always been very much his bag. You had to take care of them, learn how to use them, make them run right. And Tommy Armitage was a dab hand at it.Sol spends an afternoon in pleasant distraction, courtesy of the syndicate’s pretty dark-haired arms dealer.
Relationships: Thomas Armitage/Solomon Tozer
Series: inferno [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986475
Kudos: 17
Collections: The Terror Bingo, The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	get down

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for day seven of Rarepair Week! Free space! Also, for the “gunpowder” square on my Terror Bingo card.

Sol pulled into the storage lot around noon that Saturday, sun beating down on the fields and factories that sprawled outwards from London. This was one of his favorite errands to run, as it were - the company was kind, and the merchandise interesting. He wasn’t often called to use a gun, and it wasn’t strictly his favorite method of incapacitating whomever got on Neil’s bad side, but weapons of any sort had always been very much his bag. You had to take care of them, learn how to use them, make them run right. And Tommy Armitage was a dab hand at it. 

“Tommy gun!” Sol called across the oil-slick griddle of the parking lot as he disembarked awkwardly from the creaking seat (he was driving the junker, today; Neil was awfully peevish about loaning out the Capri, even though the money to buy it had been half Sol’s), his voice maybe louder than it should have been. But the drowsy heat of suburban noon seemed undisturbed by this volley; the only attention he garnered was that of the slight dark-haired figure who was leaning against the lockup door in the meager shade of the tin roof. Tommy waved him over, beaming. 

“Sol,” Tommy said, a bit breathlessly. “Come for the new order?”

“That’s right,” Sol nodded, squinting at Tommy through the unrelenting golden spool of sunlight that polished his curly hair and bleached his skin, showed his freckles stark against the pale flesh of his nose and cheeks. “What’ve you got for us, then?”

“We’ve got—” Tommy turned then to heft the door up and open, wincing at the grinding sound it made. Sol blinked as he ducked into the dark lockup. Nice to be out of the sun, he supposed, but damn if it weren’t just as hot in here as outside. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the dark glint of metal poking out of crates, the stain of grease on rags and wood and concrete, the muted clutter of Tommy’s workbench. 

“Here, these are them.” Tommy darted forward, snatching up a pistol off the top of a smallish box on the bench to press into Sol’s hand. “Just finished with this lot yesterday, see what you think.”

Sol whistled, low and pleased, as he took the pistol in his hands. It was a workhorse, black and blunt and scrubbed with oil, sure to fire clean and quick. “Beautiful, Tommy.” He worked his palm around the grip to see how it would sit - it was perfectly weighted, nothing amiss in the works. “As always.” 

Tommy’s eyes went lovely and wide, as they always did when he got a compliment. He chewed his lip as if he were tasting the praise, nibbling at it like a starved thing. “It’s a copper’s gun,” he ventured. “No serial. Punches right through a bulletproof vest,” he added with a crooked, daring little grin. 

Sol smiled back, a slow spreading thing, cracking open wide and shameless. “There’s a lad.” He ruffled Tommy’s mess of black curls with one big hand - so big he could fit his entire crown in the palm, Sol thought idly - to complete the expression. And Tommy—

Tommy gasped, barely audible, and pressed his head up.

He pulled away quickly, face flushing, eyes not meeting Sol’s, but Sol had felt it. Had felt Tommy pressing into his touch like a cat, pleased and heedless, for that brief moment. And that, well, that bore further exploration.

He caught Tommy’s chin in his fingers, tipped his head up to meet his eyes again - wide, ashamed, almost frightened, and Sol didn’t want him frightened, he— He hadn’t known it until now, but he wanted him to always be like he’d been a moment ago. Leaning into Sol’s touch, melting for Sol’s praise. How could he have ever had such a pretty thing within arm’s reach and not seen it? (Well, he hadn’t completely missed it, had he, who could? But he hadn’t had any inkling what a gem he had here.)

“I’m sorry,” Tommy said wretchedly. He squirmed a bit in Sol’s grasp, as if trying to avoid his gaze, but Sol held him steady. “Really, I—”

Enough of that, Sol thought, and caught Tommy’s mouth mid-excuse to kiss him long and hard and tender. He let his other hand come up to stroke Tommy’s cheek - his face fit so nicely in Sol’s palm - and licked his mouth open, nipping at his lower lip. You don’t have to starve, he thought. Not today.

When he pulled back Tommy gasped again, high and wild. His eyes were as wide as ever, lashes fluttering and casting strange shadows on his cheeks in the low light of the room. “You don’t,” Sol said - pitching his voice down into a half-hoarse gravel - “have to be sorry.” Another kiss, quick, biting. “I don’t want you to be sorry.” 

This time it was Tommy who kissed him. His skinny arms came up around Sol’s neck, grasping like Sol might disappear into thin air if he didn’t keep a firm enough grip on him. His smudgy gunsmith’s fingers pressed warm and soft into the meat of Sol’s shoulders, pulling him further into the room. “Over here,” he muttered. “If you— if you want—” They were behind a low wall of crates; if they went down on the ground, they would be out of view, even with the door half-open to let in the light. “I can get,” he pulled away and rummaged on the shelf at the back wall to produce a quilted drop-cloth, singed and spattered with oil, which he dropped to the concrete floor. Sol looked on, vaguely amused; Eager, are we. 

He pulled Tommy to him against the side-wall, caught his face and hip to kiss him again before sliding down onto the dusty cloth. Hauled him up onto his lap like he weighed nothing, which produced from him a gratifying sound - expansive, whining, full of hairline fractures - and a rabbity little twitch of the hips. Sol grinned at him, slipping his hand up under Tommy’s shirt to feel the downy roll and heave of his stomach. “Yeah?” Tommy nodded quick and jerky. “What you want, Tommy? My cock in your arse?” Sol could feel Tommy’s full-body shudder against him, see the mark he left when he hit his own lip. He dropped his hand down to thumb over the line of Tommy’s prick in his jeans. “Your cock in my mouth?”

“Ah, Christ,” Tommy breathed. “Oh my god. Sol, please.” He was half-writhing in Sol’s lap already, feet braced against the wall and bracketing Sol’s back for leverage. 

“Right,” Sol huffed. “First things first, then.” He shuffled up to pour Tommy out of his lap and lay him gently onto the drop-cloth, one hand behind his head - he wasn’t sure the lad had the presence of mind not to crack it on the floor if he let him drop. He kept his hand there after he laid him down, tangling half-rough in his halo of glossy curls. And there it was, Tommy rubbing up into his hand again, mouth open and eyes shut, brow scrunched up like he was in pain. Lovely little thing. 

Sol had to bat Tommy’s own fumbling hands away to get his fly down; he rubbed over the knuckles that were so often stained with grease, squeezed the fingers that were so deft in the workings of a gun, gentling him down to quiescence. When he had got Tommy’s trousers down past his thighs - then, on consideration, all the way off, for they might as well do it all at once - he took a moment to sit back and enjoy the sight before him. Tommy was watching him hungry and unblinking, pretty mouth still halfway open and taking in unsteady breaths that made his belly dip and shift. He had one hand shoving up his t-shirt to stroke over his own chest with its fine carpet of black wiry hair; the other arm was tossed to the side like that of a doll set down carelessly. His legs, skinny-soft and hairy, shook where they lay almost flat on the ground, and led like a highway up to the nondescript white briefs through which Sol could see the enticing curve of Tommy’s cock and the dark swell of his bollocks. Sol couldn’t help a low whistle. 

“You’re a fine lookin’ lad, know that?” He met Tommy’s eyes as he said it; watched as they widened, as his face flushed. “Pretty little prick on you too, I bet.” Tommy sucked in a breath and dropped his head back to scrub it along the dirty cloth. 

Sol shouldered between Tommy’s pliant thighs and dipped his head in with a smile, intending to savor what was laid out before him. He tucked his face close into the damp cotton of Tommy’s briefs, right up next to his twitching cock, and took a lungful of his scent in. Bare hints of that oily chemical smell that hung about the whole room, reflected back in distorted notes, made an appearance; mostly, though, it was skin and sweat and that essential warm odor of a man’s body, thick and heavy so’s Sol could almost taste it in the back of his throat. Cut through with the sour bloom of arousal, and that Sol would be able to taste soon enough. 

He had to bite back on the urge to rip Tommy’s pants right off him - the lad probably wouldn’t mind too much, he thought, but it didn’t seem quite the gentlemanly thing to do. He pulled them down instead, deliberately tugging Tommy’s prick down with the waistband to get the full damp slap as it sprang eagerly back up to his belly. It was a sweet little length, just barely enough to bump at the back of his throat - and pretty, too, just like he’d thought, jutting pale pink from the nest of hair above and weeping little jewels of fluid onto the plump furred fullness of his balls below. When he took the head into his mouth Tommy squirmed and bucked beneath him, gasping out hoarse little cries; Sol took one big hand to the jut of Tommy’s cream-smooth hipbone and pressed down to discourage further squirming. Tommy wasn’t truly big enough to choke him, he didn’t think, but he didn’t fancy testing that assumption just yet.

He stayed on Tommy’s head for a long moment, tonguing under the foreskin to feel out the terrain of him, then slid lower until Tommy was seated snug in his mouth and leaking steadily down the back of his throat. With his nose budged up in the muggy heat of Tommy’s curls he was surrounded by the smell of him, raw and enfolding, making his own prick harden in his olive-drab trousers. He flattened his tongue against the underside of Tommy to feel his pulse thundering through his prick as he listened to the lad grunt and groan above him, then flicked it out to lave the top of his sack, tasting sweat and bitter. 

He let Tommy’s cock rest still in his mouth - let up on his hips, let him fuck restively in and out - while he dug in his trouser pockets for the little bottle that was always hanging around somewhere or other because you never knew, did you. It showed itself presently in his left side pocket, and he squeezed some of its slick shining contents onto his fingers to get on with the task at hand - the task of pressing over the silk-soft furl of Tommy’s arse with two fingers, greasing him as well as the lad himself would grease a gun-barrel, opening him by degrees until one blessed finger could glide into him without resistance. And he welcomed Sol in so easily, so eagerly, like he’d been waiting all his life for it - bearing down to draw him in and clenching up to clutch around him at frantic intervals, thrusting twitchily between Sol’s mouth and Sol’s fingers with gratifying desperation. 

When he could get two fingers into Tommy’s soft snatch and stretch them out apart from each other with next to no resistance, he figured it would have to do - one or both of them, he felt, stood a good chance of combusting if he didn’t get on with it. He stripped his shirt - Tommy gasped like he was seeing some great wonder of the world for the first time - and sat up on his knees, brought Tommy’s sweet little arse up to meet where his prick stood brash and obvious in his fatigues. He let his zip rub against the soft skin round back of Tommy’s thigh as he undid his trousers, watching for his response - a strange little shiver and a whispery groan, another bead of slick from his cockhead where it stood red and neglected above his stomach. For a moment he laid his prick down next to Tommy’s and rubbed it against, brought a fist up to strip them off together, got Tommy gasping and rolling his hips - then he situated himself down against Tommy’s hole (so much wider than it had been, gaped open like a starving mouth) and slicked up to push in smooth and unyielding.

Tommy howled as Sol got himself bollocks-deep, honestly howled, a long and primal yelping sound like a dog that had caught its paw. Sol froze, worried first that he’d gone too fast (though this fear was allayed by one look at Tommy’s slack, starry face with eyes rolled back and mouth open in a beatific smile) and then that they were about to be burst in on by some concerned citizen. When no interruption came, he gave Tommy’s hips a squeeze and began fucking into him shallowly. “Shit, Tommy. You sound like that every time you get your arse fucked?”

Tommy shook his head, curls dancing and matting on the dirty cloth beneath. “Never...like that before,” he gasped. “That’s all you, Sol.”

And fuck, if that wasn’t something. He leaned down over Tommy, pulled his head up as he kept driving into him, slipped his tongue into his mouth - next time, he thought, he’d have to get his prick between these lips; they were wasted on anything else at all besides sucking cock. For now he could fuck his tongue between them, feel the thin-skinned swell of them as they worked to kiss back, and that was no small thing by any means. Even less so, when paired with the clenching velvet heat of Tommy’s arse around him, slick and electrically delightful, and the sounds - Tommy gasping and whining into the scant air between them, and the abrupt little squelches as Sol fucked the excess lube out of him and into a slow-spreading oily stain on the cloth. No, it was no small thing at all.

Tommy was clutching at him for dear life as he started snapping his hips in deeper, faster, pulling out farther each time so he could hit Tommy’s prostate with devilish reliability. He squeezed a hand high on Sol’s flank, thumb stroking over the hair on his chest, fingers delving into the humid cave of his armpit in a way that felt like a strange faint echo of penetration. Sol watched, grinding mindlessly into Tommy’s arse, as he withdrew this hand and brought it up to cover his mouth and nose; didn’t try to hold down a ragged groan when Tommy sucked his own fingers into his mouth to lick Sol’s sweat and scent from them. He was a sight - dark eyes rolled blissfully back in his head just for a taste of Sol, any part of Sol. When Sol folded himself down to kiss him again, he could taste a faint flat note of his own sweat in Tommy’s mouth, and it set something off in him: a trail of gunpowder snaking back to a cask, fire ripping through. He could feel sweat pouring off his body, making his hands slip on the soft skinny flesh of Tommy’s hips; he could feel Tommy around him, yielding utterly to the thick press of his cock; he could feel every grimy, slippery, joyous sensation at once, beating down on him like summer rain, as he buried himself as deep as he could go and pumped a river of hot seed into Tommy’s twitching hole.

He stayed in, let the sensation turn to searing with the softening of his prick, as he wrapped a hand around Tommy’s cock and began pulling him off sure and quick. He watched Tommy watching him, eyes flicking dazed between hand and face, for one-two-three strokes - and on the fourth he screwed his eyes shut and bucked up, up into Sol’s fist as he came in great shuddering spurts over his own belly. 

Tommy’s arms, still shaking, hooked around Sol’s shoulders to drag him down into a sticky sweaty heap - vaguely Sol felt the relief of slipping soft from Tommy’s arse, the oily gush of jism out onto the ruined drop-cloth. As he lay boneless Tommy squirmed up into his arms, laid kisses to his neck and chest and belly before tucking his head into the crook of Sol’s neck. It was tacky and humid down on the floor, the concrete beneath the cloth gone lukewarm and the wall of crates blocking the breeze from the roll-down door that still sat half-open. Somehow, Sol couldn’t find it in himself to mind. He could spare a moment, he thought, to be held.

When at last he roused himself, he began to feel vaguely guilty for hanging about. “Got to be off,” he said gruffly with a shake of Tommy’s shoulder. “Neil’ll be in fits if I’m any later.” In fact, it was even odds that Neil wouldn’t even look up when he came in the door, but Sol didn’t like to gamble on that kind of stake. 

Something passed over Tommy’s face for a moment, something wide open and crushed-looking, and suddenly Sol’s guilt at staying so long was warring with guilt at leaving so soon. Tommy turned and swiped a rag from the back shelf, scrubbed himself over with it and tugged his jeans back on. “Right,” he said, still not facing Sol. He jerked his head toward the workbench with its box of glinting coppers’ guns. “Don’t forget your goods.”

“Ah— Yeah, right.” Sol paused in buttoning his shirt, set a hand on Tommy’s shoulder to turn him. His face had that familiar good-natured tilt to it, but his eyes were brighter than usual. Sol gave him a quick kiss, just long enough to feel him melt back into it, then drew back to look him in the eye. “Call me when I can swing by again, yeah? Goods or no goods.” He caught the fingers of Tommy’s hand and squeezed them in some kind of vague reassurance.

Tommy smiled weakly and squeezed back. “I will, Sol. Thanks.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tommy Gun IS a stupid nickname, but Sol WOULD use it and Tommy WOULD love it.


End file.
